


alone/with you

by technicallyproficient



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, it has everything: meals! depression! vagueness!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 11:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18051278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicallyproficient/pseuds/technicallyproficient
Summary: Things had been changing between the two of them ever since Joe, an accidental intimacy that filled in all of the empty spaces in their lives.





	alone/with you

“Well, that’s finished. The woman who cherished  
her suffering is dead. I am her descendant.  
I love the scar-tissue she handed on to me,  
but I want to go on from here with you  
fighting the temptation to make a career of pain.”  
\- Adrienne Rich, “VIII”

* * *

“Do you ever regret it?” She pauses for a beat, sifts through the paper holding her fish and chips. “Taking the fall for Tess, I mean.”

They are sitting on the wall above the beach, their feet swinging back and forth, drumming an off-beat rhythm against the stone. It had been his idea to come out here. On his way to work this morning he’d noticed the blue sky, had actually stopped to admire how beautiful it looked here, in Broadchurch of all places. And because he wasn’t the type of person to notice blue skies or promising days — hadn’t been that type of person ever, actually — he’d decided to make something of it. So he’d invited her to lunch. On a sticky note.

She had laughed at the note when she saw it on her desk, snickered at the sight of his first and last name below a very formally written, “Miller — Lunch at half twelve?” 

When she had returned the note to him she’d been beaming, treating him to one of her rare gummy smiles. She’d even taken the time to write back, in her almost child-like handwriting, “YES OR NO” and had circled the yes. She had ribbed him about it almost incessantly throughout the morning, this bumbling and awkward attempt at humanity he’d made. But she was smiling as she did it, so he endured it. 

When they left the office at exactly half twelve they had both been giddy with excitement, each prattling on nervously about their children. Which is why he is startled, then, by the directness of her question. By the sheer fucking seriousness of it. Hadn’t they just been laughing about some silly thing Fred had done? 

“Never. I regret missing so much of Daisy’s life, but there are things… I couldn’t give her. A girl needs her mother.” He can feel her eyes on him, now, staring at him as if expecting him to elaborate on what it is exactly he couldn’t give to Daisy. He doesn’t. 

She sighs and crosses her legs, crumples up the paper that once held her fish and chips. “Children need their fathers, too, Hardy.” 

He turns to face her, then. There is something in her face, and the way she had placed an emphasis on the word _children_ , that leads him to believe they are no longer talking about him. Though he is always surprised when the conversation turns to this, he is never blindsided by it. Miller only lets herself talk about Joe indirectly, using abstract questions or by going suddenly sullen, as if a look alone is enough to convey all of her thoughts. And usually, it is. 

But because he has run out of ways to tell her that it isn’t her fault, that she couldn’t possibly have known, he doesn’t say any of that. He simply wipes the hand he had used to eat his fish and chips on his trousers, and then tentatively — very tentatively — reaches out and takes her hand. 

He continues to stare at her long enough to notice the twitch of her eyebrows, the beginnings of shock starting to register on her face, before he gets embarrassed and looks down. He watches his own fingers toy with hers, getting used to the softness of them. The slight greasiness from her own fish and chips. And then, as softly as he can manage, he says, “I know. I know they do.”

* * *

 She invites him over for dinner that evening. Or rather, she invites him to come cook at her home, arguing that while she _can_ cook, it’s rude to serve guests food they can’t eat. He doesn’t disagree with her. 

She huffs out a laugh when she opens the door and sees him. “Oh good, you’ve changed into something more comfortable,” she deadpans. He is in the same suit he wore earlier that day. 

He grins back at her and then looks down at himself, as if taking in his outfit for the first time. “I took my tie off, at least.” 

She shakes her head and reaches out for him, grabbing him by the wrist and tugging him inside. She has always man-handled him this way, shoving him and pulling him along, moving him as she sees fit. It’s as if being a mum to two boys has made her impervious to normal human behaviour, has shaped her into a more tactile and pushier version of herself. It used to drive him bloody insane in the early days, but now he quite likes it. He is troubled by this. 

Ellie stops them suddenly on her way into the kitchen, letting her hand move around his wrist. “Hardy, you didn’t! You took your cuff-links off too? Next thing I know, you’ll be showing up at my home in _trousers_ ,” she says, mock-scandalised. 

He gives her a pained look. “Oi! Keep it up and I might just accidentally cook enough food for three,” he teases. 

She smiles back at him, a teasing sort of grin that is just shy of flirty. “Enough food for one, you mean? The boys aren’t here.” 

When he doesn’t immediately respond, her demeanor changes. She removes her hand from his wrist with a nervous jerk, and says, “That is okay, isn’t it? I just thought- you know, they’re always here when you come over and they’re so loud and just… everywhere. Lucy offered to take them, in fact she’s probably teaching Tom how to play online poker right now but I can-” 

He cuts her off mid-ramble by placing a hand on her shoulder. “Miller, it’s okay. I bought enough food for four, though, so I hope you’re hungry,” he says. 

She visibly relaxes beneath his hand, exhaling with relief. “Well, that’s good, because I’ve got enough wine for four, too,” she laughs. 

++ 

Things had been changing between the two of them ever since Joe, an accidental intimacy that filled in all of the empty spaces in their lives. She relied on him more, for meals and companionship and — once he had his surgery and got cleared for it — as a person to pick her kids up when she couldn’t. _My boss is a real hard-arse. I can’t get away from work,_ she’d joked once. Can _you pick Tom up from football practice?_

He can’t pinpoint when, exactly, he’d started to develop feelings for her. He had always found her attractive, had always been fond of the way her hair smelled when she came into work in the morning. But she had annoyed him, too, in the beginning and so he had been able to look past it. 

And now things are different. They touch each other more, seeking out hugs after unusually difficult days and, on more than one occasion, they’ve held hands. 

After the Trish Winterman case he had kissed her on the cheek. Outside on the steps, she had told him that she wasn’t okay. That she was miserable and so fucking sick of it all. Sick of being a single parent, sick of being ostracised in Broadchurch, sick of having to go to work every day and face the cruelties human-beings were capable of inflicting upon one another. It was all too much. Watching as tears welled up in her eyes, he found himself wishing he had never solved Danny Latimer’s murder, had never introduced that pain into her life. He didn't know what to say to make it better, so he kissed her cheek, let his hand make soothing circles on her back. 

They never talk about it.

++

“Food about ready yet? I’m starving.” 

She is well into her second glass of wine at this point, leaning back against the kitchen countertop, watching him as he stirs a pasta sauce. 

They had been passing the time while he cooked in much the same way they always did, exchanging anecdotes about their kids and speculating about the case of the moment. He had been pointedly ignoring the fact that there were _no kids_ around to speak of, if only because it made him nervous. Was tonight the night they’d finally talk about their growing intimacy? Had she intended for this to be a date? It was too much to think about, so he had busied himself with chopping vegetables and focused on the soothing cadence of her voice while she filled him in on some inane Broadchurch gossip. 

She was cheekier tonight, too. Had kept asking him about when the food would be ready, kept jumping at every opportunity to tease him, to laugh flirtatiously at something he said. It had turned him into a nervous, bumbling idiot. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, had almost sliced his hand several times. And to think, dinner wasn’t even ready yet. 

For now, he tries to keep his mind off of it. He sighs and turns away from his sauce, and says, “Miller, you’ve asked me that every five minutes for the last hour.” 

She gives him the finger. And then, after a lingering silence, asks, “What do I have to do to get you to call me Ellie?” 

The two glasses of wine on a nearly empty stomach have made her bold, lowered her inhibitions. She sets her empty glass on the counter, and moves to stand beside him. She is so close he can smell her shampoo. Close enough to kiss, he thinks, somewhat wistfully. 

“I mean, I know you don’t like your first name. But I like mine. And you cook in my kitchen, pick my kids up when I can’t. Surely that puts us on a first name basis.” She pauses, as if deep in thought, and reaches out to touch his shoulder. “Don’t you think, _Alec_?” 

He can’t breathe, can’t think. Can’t manage to do anything, actually, when she is looking at him like that. Her predatory smirk tells him she is fully aware of how flustered she’s made him. 

She steps even closer to him, wedging herself between him and the sauce on the stove, leaving her hand in its place on his shoulder. With her other hand, she grabs the spoon from him and dips it into the sauce, takes her time tasting it. 

“Mmm. Sauce is ready,” she says. “I’ll go set the table.” 

With a final smirk, she moves to step away from him, making sure that every part of her body brushes up against his in the process. 

He splashes his face with cold water and takes a couple deep breaths before he grabs the food and joins her at the table. 

He isn’t going to make it.

++

They eat most of their meal in a companionable silence, both them occasionally mentioning how good the food is. 

Ellie pours herself another glass of wine, and adds some more to his. He glances up at her as she does so, and before he can stop himself, says, “It does.” 

She gives him a look that he has become familiar with, the one that says _you’re crazy, Hardy_ , and asks, “What?” 

“This,” he motions between the two of them, gestures at the dinner table, “is worthy of first names. You’re right. I’ll… try to make more of an effort to call you Ellie.” 

She smiles at him for a minute, and then continues to eat, grinning down at her plate as she does so.

“Outside of work only, of course,” he adds. “And you should still call me Hardy. Or better yet, sir, if you really felt like it,” he says, jokingly. 

“Knob,” she says, and swats at him playfully.

++

By the time they have finished dinner, and she has chided him for not bringing a proper dessert, they are both tipsy. Drunk, actually. 

Without Tom or Fred present to keep them in line, the wine had flowed freely, and the topics of conversation had entered new territory. They had mustered only enough energy to move the dishes into the kitchen, and then decided to take up residence on her couch. 

They are in the middle of laughing hysterically about the time Dirty Brian had asked her out _while she was still married_ , when she suddenly grows serious, and says, “You know, I asked him out again. After Joe. And he turned me down, said he was seeing somebody at the moment. But sometimes I wonder if maybe it was because of me, like the knowledge of what Joe… did has tainted me somehow, to everyone. Like I’m damaged goods or something,” she says, laughing nervously. 

He hates that this is happening to her, hates that every day there is a new issue, a new obstacle for her to confront because of Joe. 

“You aren’t damaged goods, Mill- Ellie,” he says. She turns to face him, smiling sadly, 

“Ellie, huh? You must be serious.” 

“I _am_ being serious. You’ve gone through something awful, and it’s going to take a while to heal. It doesn’t happen over night. But as far men go… any man would be… lucky to have you,” he says. 

She scoffs and takes a long sip of her wine, setting it down on the table and then turning back to face him. “Yeah, right.” 

“Miller, don’t-” 

“Hardy, I’ve been trying to get you to shag me for months,” she slurs, “and you haven’t noticed. Or, worse, you have and you’re so put-off by the idea that you’re pretending you haven’t noticed.” 

He freezes, unsure of how to proceed next. Had she just drunkenly confessed to wanting to fuck him? He was attracted to her, had sort-of thought she might be attracted to him. And they had grown so close after Joe’s arrest. But he had never let himself imagine things could go in this direction. 

Ellie was gaining her life back in increments. Beth was starting to come around more often, her relationship with her boys was improving every day. She had been leaning on him – they had been leaning on each other – so much, but he had always assumed it wasn’t permanent. Ellie, with her bright orange windbreaker and infectious smile, burned so much brighter than he did, even on his best days. He had always assumed that moving on from him, not needing him anymore, would just be another step towards growth. Like the time she invited him over to help paint her bedroom a new color and rearrange the furniture. 

The idea that she might want him around for good had surprised him, properly sobered him up. And although he’s scared, and nervous, he finds that she’s just vocalised something that he wants. He suddenly cannot imagine anything he wants more. 

“I’m not,” he says. “Put off by the idea, that is. I just… didn’t think you saw me that way. Or that you were ready for it- um, me, I mean.” 

She looks at him for a second, and then tilts her head back and laughs, a bright and happy sound. 

“Christ, Hardy, you are the biggest idiot I’ve ever met,” she says, reaching out to cup his face in her hands. 

She leans in a bit, waiting for him to meet her in the middle. 

Their first kiss is just a soft pressing of mouths together, nothing too daring. Her lips are soft, and she tastes faintly of whatever Malbec it is that she had been serving him throughout the night. 

When they break apart, she blushes and smiles shyly at him. It was a sweet, simple kiss, and entirely not enough for him. 

He moves to tangle his hand in her hair, and bends down to kiss her again, this time opening his mouth to let her tongue in. After a couple minutes of proper snogging, she pushes against his shoulders and moves to climb on top of him, straddling him on her couch. She pulls away from him for a second, her lips swollen and cheeks pink. “Is this okay?” she asks, breathlessly. 

He shakes with laughter, letting his hand drift up and down her back. “God, it’s so much better than okay.” 

Ellie grabs a hold of his hands and places them on her waist, and returns to the task at hand. For a while the only sounds in her house are the soft sighs and moans they make, the rustling of the couch beneath their combined weight. When his mouth drops down to place open-mouthed kisses on her throat, stopping to suck briefly at her pulse point, she grinds herself into his groin with a loud moan. It feels so good he kicks his leg out, knocking over her wine glass in the process. 

“Shit,” she says, when she hears the shattering of glass. They break apart and she uses the arm of the sofa to leverage herself off of his lap, trying to assess the damage with what little brain power she has left. 

He gets up, too, rushing into the kitchen to grab a broom and some towels to wipe up the mess. 

When he comes back in, she is running her hands through hair, trying to straighten her clothes and make herself appear less rumpled. Less like she’d just been drunkenly making-out with her boss on her couch. 

She sees him, finally, and her eyes zero in on his lap, where further evidence of their previous activity is… prominent. She smirks at him, and then says, “I’ll get the mess. You should… take a minute.” 

He feels himself turn red, and moves to hand her the broom and towels. “Right, um. Yeah. Okay.” 

He heads to the loo, splashes cold water on his hands and face. _What the fuck was that_ , he thinks. When she had invited him over for dinner tonight he had never expected it to go like this, had never pictured Ellie straddling him on a couch for the better part of an hour. God, he was in trouble. And hopelessly turned on. 

When he walks back into the room, she has the mess mostly contained, though she continues to sweep nervously. 

“Should we-” 

“Do you think-” 

They both start talking at the same time, and then stop and laugh. She sighs and says, “You go first.” 

“I just- we should talk about this right?” 

Ellie smiles weakly at him and then says, “That’s what I was thinking.” 

He is suddenly nervous. What if she didn’t like it? Or worse, what if she’s trying to find a way to tell him she never wants to see him again? He takes a deep breath and releases it, a bit shakily. “Ellie, I don’t know what your feelings are on… _us_. I don’t even know if it would be smart for us to do this right now, with everything that’s going on in our lives and with our jobs. But I do know that spending time with you, with your boys and Daisy, has made me the happiest I’ve been in… a long time. Ever, probably.” 

He directs his eyes towards the carpet, growing shy and embarrassed over the emotional direction this is taking. 

“I want to be with you, in any capacity that you’ll have me. Whether that’s just as some bloke that helps you cook and picks up your kids, or as something… more. That has to be up to you.” 

When he looks up from the carpet at her, there are tears in her eyes. She moves to close the space between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and says, “More. I want something more,” and then adds, cheekily, “Sir.” 

“Oi!” he says, and lifts his hand from its spot on her waist to lightly swat her arse. 

They both dissolve into a fit of giggles, ending only when Ellie rests her head against his chest. 

“When do you have to pick the boys up from Lucy’s?” he asks, suddenly. 

“About half ten tomorrow morning. Why?” 

“Well,” he says, moving to check his watch, “by my count, that means you have… about ten hours to kill. Any plans?” 

She gives him her famous gummy smile when she catches onto his line of thinking, and then says, “Well now that you mention it, there’s something I’d like to have you take a look at. Upstairs.” 

He grabs onto her hand when she turns away from him, starting on her trek upstairs. “Why don’t you lead the way?” 

She tugs a bit on his hand, turning back to flash him another smile. 

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was my first foray into fanfic, and I’m VERY nervous about it. I would like to apologize for a) the lack of beta, and therefore, the (probably) numerous mistakes and b) my American-ness showing in this story! I tried my best to use the right spelling/phrases (mum NOT mom, etc) but I’m sure there’s a ‘z’ where there shouldn’t be, or a phrase that has you all scratching your heads. Lastly, standard disclaimers apply: I don’t own Ellie Miller or Alec Hardy, but I DO let them kiss. Sorry, Chibnall! 
> 
> (You can find me on Tumblr @abbymlockhart)


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